I took my cross-bow,
Thither I went;
Thinking to kill four,
I missed them all.”
The few uncertain notes could not rob this strained voice of its clear tone, limpid as the waters of a stream.
At the bend of the road some sheep appeared, then the shepherdess, standing out like shadows against the light trelliswork of branches. She was a girl of fifteen or sixteen, to whom health and strength gave a rustic beauty.
“’Tis the heart of my love
That I have wounded.
Love, my sweet love,
Have I hurt you?”